


In Every Way Imaginable (you were my sweetest downfall)

by Emotionalsorbet



Series: Cas, you got your ears on? [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 vs 1 if you squint, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dean Being Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, praying, protection spells, sam kind of gets caught in the middle, sorry Sam, the profound bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 08:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emotionalsorbet/pseuds/Emotionalsorbet
Summary: The one where Cas learns that he can pray to Dean, and Sam has eyes.Aka: 5 times Dean prays to Cas and 1 time Cas prays to Dean.





	In Every Way Imaginable (you were my sweetest downfall)

 

The first time Dean prays to Castiel—the first  _real_  time he does it, Castiel can feel it. It's an odd sensation, a whirlwind that blinds and captivates until everything around him is speaking in solely tongues of Dean Winchester.

Somewhere to Castiel's left, behind the mix of angsty hunter, is Zachariah, staring at him incredulously. "Castiel," he starts, sternly, "did you hear a word I just said?"

Castiel turns his head, mind still caught in the essence of the prayer session. Dean stops speaking. The world stops spinning. Castiel is buzzing.

"I...my presence is required elsewhere," he offers lamely.

In the silence that follows, there is disbelief. There is confusion.

And then there is Dean.

 

* * *

 

The thing about praying, is that once someone starts, they rarely ever continue.

Once Dean starts, though, he  _keeps_ doing it.

His prayers come in like rain—trickling, slowly, then cascading down, crashing against the pavement that is Castiel all at once. They come day by day, everyday, maybe just shy of one. But nevertheless, Castiel listens all the same.

_"Cas, you got your ears on?"_

 

* * *

 

Sam's prayers are different. They're dull, a storm over the horizon that Castiel can see, but can't quite feel as deeply. He prays almost as much as Dean, for a while, until Castiel stops answering, and Sam stops trying to reach him.

Mostly, then, after—there is silence.

And then there is Dean.

_"Now I lay me down to sleep and pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass down here."_

It's a coincidence, truly, honestly, but Sam won't take that for an answer. Dean prays, Castiel appears, and Sam...looks pissed.

"Hello?" He spins, looking from Castiel to Dean, to Castiel again. " _Hello?_ Hello."

"Uh...That is still the term?"

"I've been calling you ever since I got out," Sam says, exasperated. "Dean calls once and suddenly it's ' _hello_ '?"

Castiel shrugs, feeling his explanation fizzling on his tongue. "Dean and I do share a more profound bond."

He turns to Dean, feeling a need to clarify the awkwardness of bringing it up: "I wasn't going to mention it."

 

* * *

 

Castiel starts responding to the word Cas. It takes a few months and tastes bitter on his tongue when he tries it out, but Dean makes it sound so... _so_...

"C'mon,  _Cas_ , don't be a dick."

... _charming_.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes—though Cas won't admit to it, and he assumes that Dean won't either—they interact for the hell of it. Dean will pray, a quiet, subtle little thing, and Cas will appear with a gust of wind flowing in behind himself. Sometimes Dean will smile. Sometimes he holds it back.

Now is one of those times.

"You feel like a going for a drink?"

Cas blinks.

"A drink. On a bender. You know that one, yeah?" Dean laughs, smile coming out, and for a moment, the sound presents itself as true. Genuine. Cas tries to laugh along.

"One drink," Dean presses. "C'mon, just you and me. Sam's out doing who knows what, and I'm sick to death of staring at this laptop."

Cas hesitates. There's business he should attend to. He should—he should go, really. But Dean's staring at him, and there's something about his presence that radiates the words  _don't go._

So Cas doesn't.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Dean is sullen, to say the least. He's moping and down-trodden and altogether the spitting image of miserable. Cas feels a little snoop-ish, because, and in short, he  _can_  see Dean's emotions without really asking for them. But considering Dean's being so outward with everything, he doesn't really count his spying as such.

This time, Cas appears without summons to do so. Dean jumps.

"Christ," he hisses, swerving on the road. "I'm gonna buy you a bell."

"For...what, exactly?"

"Never mind," Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Just—how are you, Cas?"

"You wanna know how  _I_  am?"

"Not like you to just pop in without something being wrong, so yeah. Humor me."

Cas frowns. Surely, he can learn to start popping up more often, if that's what Dean wants. He could try, at least. "I am fine, Dean."

There is a pause. Unsettling at its core. Cas clears his throat.

"How are you?"

"Tired. Exhausted," Dean runs a hand down his face. Stares at the road for a moment or two. then he continues, glancing over at Cas where he's perched in the passenger seat. "Don't  _you_  ever get tired?"

Cas squints at him, "I do not require sleep to function."

"Not what I asked you," Dean states, plainly. He does not seem to be angry. "Aren't you ever  _tired?_ Physically, emotionally—drained. I mean, a billion years on the go—that's enough to burn a man out."

"I am an angel, Dean. Time affects me differently."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright."

Dean sighs, clearly far from content, but he reaches for the radio and drops the topic anyway. "Hope you like Zepplin."

 

* * *

 

Dean starts praying a string of oddities.

He no longer asks for Cas's presence for a specific reason. Matter of fact, he no longer asks for  _anything_  specific—not information or help. Not for angel mojo or a lift from point a to point b. He prays to pray. Asks for Cas to be listening, and that's it.

" _Dear Castiel, who art may be running his ass away from heaven, we pray that you have your ears on."_

Cas waits, after, for Dean to say something more. To beg for help or a request for his assistance or  _something_. But there is nothing.

 

* * *

 

It's become apparent that heaven is far from being on friendly terms with Castiel. The angels hate him. Matter of fact, they're hunting him, and to do so, they're going through the Winchesters.

They're everywhere now—on hunts, in diners. And each and every time, Dean deflects them. Usually, Cas assumes, but not now. No, now there must be something wrong, because he's never once had Dean pray for him to stay  _away_  before.

So naturally, he pops up.

The scene is something rotten: Dean and Sam are pressed to the outside wall of a warehouse, pinned and struggling against some invisible force. There are angels, two of them, both of whom Cas has never met before. They're demanding cooperation, for Cas's location, and Dean is all but spitting in their faces.

"You can  _bite_  me," he says.

A streetlight blows out. The shorter angel steps forward, "Don't tempt me, Winchester."

"I will ask you again," the taller one says. "Castiel. Where is he?"

Dean opens his mouth, in a pissy remark, no doubt. Cas steps forward before he can get a word out. "Why don't you turn around and see for yourself?"

The angels spin, each spotting amused smiles. "Looks like your beloved angel is just as dumb as you two."

Sam gasps, " _Cas_."

Dean is far from pleased. "Cas," he growls, "get out of here."

He's kicking, fighting more, doing all he can to get off that wall and into the action. His voice is strained, yet he continues to scream at the the situation, at the angels, at Cas.

Cas isn't listening to him. The whirlwind swirls around in purely tongues of Dean Winchester, and Castiel is buzzing.  _I'm doing this for you, Dean,_ he wants to say.  _I am hunted, I rebelled, and I did it all for you._

He bites his tongue. He does not speak.

He steps forward.

His angel blade falls from his sleeve, and his fingers wrap around the handle as he walks, preparing. Two against one isn't all that bad.

Cas takes the first swing, arm going up and blade coming down, but the taller one dodges him. Ducks left and reroutes. The shorter one comes at his right, and Cas focuses on her, matching blade to blade and feeling sluggish for no apparent reason.

 _Cas_ , Dean comes in, interfering.  _Cas, don't be stupid. Don't do this._

His head is swirling, prayers swarming his every thought because Dean won't  _shut the hell up_. Cas can handle himself. If could concentrate, if he could just think—

The blown out streetlight is close enough. If it falls, it has a good chance of hitting at least  _one_  out of the three of them. He wastes no time in bringing his free hand up to shoot a blast at it.

He misses.

Dean is mumbling in Latin, now. Saying words that Cas is surprised the man even knows. It sounds familiar, like a spell, almost. Cas doesn't have enough time to focus on translating. He'll figure it out later.

The taller one grabs him from behind, taking advantage of Cas's stupor and holding him in place. Cas tries to break free, lifting his arm again to shoot. This time, he hits his target. The streetlight comes crashing down with an unsettling  _creak_ , and the angel holding him  relinquishes his grip as he's crushed beneath the weight.

But there is no chance to celebrate . In a vengeance for her parter, the shorter one thrusts her arm forward, driving her blade straight into Cas's core.

His stomach lights up where the blade is puncturing him, right below his sternum. He gasps, gulping in breaths as his body bunches forward. The blade is removed, stained red now, and Dean, Dean is shouting. In Latin, in English. The world is spinning. Time seems endless. Someone catches him—Sam, most likely.

"Cas, Cas—"

Cas wonders why he isn't dead yet.

Sam lowers him gently, fumbling under his weight. Cas has the urge to apologize, but the only thing that leaves his lips is another string of desperate inhales.

Dean is in front of him before he can process another thought, in his vision, thrusting Cas's angel blade into the remaining angel and turning the world a blinding shade of white.

He blinks again, and Dean is on his knees above him.

"You dumb son of a bitch," Dean addresses. His face is hard, but it doesn't take much for it to go soft again. His brows furrow. His mouth dips down in the corners. "You— _Cas_. Cas,  _Castiel_. Look at me."

There is a taste of metal in Cas's mouth. A tangy coating on his tongue that comes up as he coughs. Sam keeps his head up, just barely, bending him at the very top of his spine so that his airway is clear.

" _Look_  at me," Dean demands. His hands fumble with the buttons on Cas's shirt. He gets them open, eventually, undoing about three or four in the center of his stomach. His eyes widen at the wound. "Jesus fuck, Cas. You really did a number on yourself."

Cas's eyes flutter shut.

"How bad is this?"

"I believe I may be dying," Cas confesses. There is blood on his lips now, he knows, because Dean reaches a hand up, hesitantly, swiping the pad of his thumb across Cas's bottom lip.

Cas's eyes flutter open long enough to catch the look of horror he displays at the sight of crimson on his fingertip.

"No you're not," Dean says. "You're not. You hear me? You're going to be fine. Sam and I—we're gonna fix you up. You'll be fine."

He glances up to Sam the moment he stops speaking. They share a look that Cas can't read. Dean swallows audibly, "Get the car."

Cas is lowered to lie flat on the ground, and Sam vanishes, clearing up the view of the stars. Cas stares at them, for a while, vision blearing and blaring the white specs amongst the sea of black. It's gone soon enough, though, disappearing as Dean shifts around him, getting his hands everywhere.

For a while, Dean says nothing, but his prayers, the intricacies of his thoughts, they are babbling. And they are loud. Cas hears each and every one. They're all the same—pleading, begging, mixing with his real voice as Sam comes back into the picture.

"We're gonna move you," Sam says, softly.

Dean interrupts: "You hold on, you hear me? You see a white light,  you run like  _hell_  in the opposite direction."

Cas wants to open his mouth, to  explain that the white light humans talk about after death is heaven, something angels don't experience. But, and considering he's still sucking in air like a fish out of water, he keeps his words to himself.

He focuses on breathing, on Dean, who's shouting, "Stay with me, Cas!" And thinking:  _if you die in my arms, I will never forgive you._

So Cas does his best. He bites his tongue, inhales harshly through his nose. Blood sputters up through his lips.

They get him in the backseat, lay him across the length of it and forget to close the door. The world is buzzing. The car engine hums.

"Stop it—" Cas hears Sam say. "Stop it. Stop—Dean,  _Dean_! I'm driving. Get in the back with him."

Cas can't imagine Dean's happy about the arrangement, but a moment later, the driver's side door opens and Sam's head comes into view. Dean appears in the passenger side door to the backseat, and Cas stares at him, eyes failing to stay open.

"You're not allowed to do that," Dean says, upside down, crowding in, squeezing his all too large frame between the front and back seats. "Angels don't sleep, remember? Angels don't—keep your eyes open, Cas."

There's pressure on his stomach, right under his ribs—a palm driving straight down, trying to gather all of the blood and keep it in. Trying to keep the injury out of sight.

A hand touches his face, softly. Cas's eyes flutter open again, and when they do, they land on Dean, who's somehow managed to manuever himself to hover over Cas completely. His freckles are unrecognizable in the dark.

"Eyes open, Cas," Dean repeats, trembling only slightly. "Look at me. You watch me. Understood?"

Cas says nothing. He swallows. Chokes. Wheezes.

"Castiel," Dean tries again, brushing his thumb along Cas's temple. "Capiche?"

"Yes," Cas says, but he's losing his focus. He's losing strength. His voice sounds half hearted. His words jumble. "I capiche."

"Shit.  _Fuck_ ," Dean breathes, moving his hand from Cas's face to his stomach. Joining his hands and pressing down a little harder. "Fuck the bunker. Get to a hospital."

"Dean," Sam swallows. "Humans can't—that was an angel blade."

" _Sam_ ," Dean barks, " _hospital_."

"Sam is correct. Humans cannot..." Cas squints, trailing off, scrunching his face as the car jolts upward over a pothole. A wave of pain shoots through him, pulsating out from the wound in his stomach to the rest of his body. It flows through his veins, down his thighs and up his arms until it's radiating in his extremities and swarming around his head. Until his vision warps. " _Agh_."

"Sam!" Dean shouts.

"Sorry, Sorry!" Sam calls back. "Is he alright?"

" _Nghh_ ," Cas answers, gasping. His mind is failing him. Tongues are colliding and coming out wrong, and there's absolutely no way he can survive this. He needs Dean and Sam to drop him off, to let him out before he goes nuclear. But every word comes out like—"Humans, oi—ipamis. Apila— _aH_."

"What?" Dean asks, looking utterly baffled. He makes a face like he might pull away and let Cas finish bleeding out, but Cas won't let him. He presses up, into Dean, back arching in pain off the seat as he cries out. He wails. His shoulders pinch back so hard that it hurts. Then he drops, nearly limp. Dean's hands follow him the whole way.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut. His own hands shoot up to grab fist fulls of Dean's shirt. "Ol voresa."

Dean blinks. Sam glances over his shoulder, "What is he saying?"

"I don't..." Dean stares at him, expression lost as he tries to understand. He doesn't back away. "Cas, you're not making any sense."

Cas wants to scream. There has to be some way. Some language besides English that Sam or Dean might get. He racks his brain, tries to remember what Sam said he studied at university. Italian? No. Latin, maybe, but no one speaks that anymore. (Except Dean, apparently.)

This is useless. He grabs Dean's shirt, more desperately, pulling down with as much strength as he can muster and just runs his mouth.

"Ego. Necessitudo. E."

"That's Latin!" Sam shouts, at the same time Dean says  _is that Latin?_  "I know that one—he said, he said um—"

"He said he needs out."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I—you know Latin?"

"Some of it, yeah." Dean tells him. "Exorcisms, spells. You get the hang of it after a while. What does he want out of?"

"The car, most likely."

"Well tough luck, because you're stuck in here until we can get you somewhere else," Dean says, looking back down at Cas. Cas doesn't relinquish his grip. Instead, he pulls Dean down further, until their inches apart, nearly touching.

Dean blinks dumbly at him.

Cas hardens his expression as much as possible, "Ego. Necessitudo. E."

"Okay,  _alright_ , death grip off, please," Dean says, pulling back to sit up straight. Cas goes back to gasping, softer now, the previous action having taken most of his energy reserve. His eyes flutter shut again as the image of his stomach glowing comes into the picture.

"Ego...ol vore—"

Cas cuts himself off, mid sentence, and he does what he swore he would never try.

He prays.

_I need out._

"Sam," Dean says, voice oddly calm and eyes never leaving Cas's. "Sam, pull over."

It's all jumbled after that.

The world moves in slow motion. Words smush together. The car comes to a halt. The pressure is removed from his ribs. Someone takes one of his hands—Dean, he guesses—and brings it up, pushing it through something unrelenting. There is a scream.

And then there is Dean.

 

* * *

 

Castiel wakes to a world of white. He's in a bed, he thinks, presumably, covered by a cheap, blue sheet and surrounded by monitors. He winces at the brightness of it all, squeezing his eyes shut before looking around.

Deans asleep in a chair by the bed railing to his left, and Sams sitting haphazardly in the corner by the door. He's tapping away on his phone, frowning.

"Sam," Cas croaks, and Sam jumps. Dean coughs, blinking awake. He sits up, stands. His expression is hard. " _Dean_."

He moves first, Dean, grabbing the paper cup Sam fills with the dispenser in the hall. He hands it to Cas, who takes it carefully. There is a blinking block of white wrapped around his forefinger that blocks his ability to grip properly. Cas tilts his head at it, stretching out his hand and moving the block around.

Dean speaks before Cas can ask about it, "You're one lucky son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Dean—."

"What were you  _thinking_?" Dean shouts. "Why did you  _do_  that? You could've gotten yourself killed, and then what, Cas? What then?"

"They were going to kill you."

"Yeah?" Dean snorts. "They almost  _did_  kill you, Cas. You were borderline—I held you, your  _dying_  body, and I felt—"

He breathes hard, looking away. Cas squints at him. "I do not regret what I did, Dean."

Dean laughs, again. Clearly pissed. "Unbelievable."

With that, he turns, walking straight out the door with a hand rubbing over his face.

"You gave us one hell of a scare, man," Sam tells him, once Dean is gone. "Started speaking wildly. In Latin, and, I think  _Enochian_? At some point. Had us real worried."

"I am sorry. I believe I lost control of motor function when close to...passing." Cas frowns, but his eyes are on the door. He's waiting for Dean to come back, even though he knows the hunter would never be so forgiving.

Sam must catch the look, because places a hand on Cas's shoulder and gives him a small, pitiful smile. "He'll come around. Just give him a little time."

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn't speak to him for days.

There are no prayers. No calls. No anything.

There is silence.

There is waiting.

There is no Dean. 

 

* * *

 

"How did I...how am I alive?" Cas asks Sam, whose eyes go wide at the question. He takes a breath, purses his lips.

"I think, maybe, that's a question for Dean."

Sam nods once he's done speaking, like he's trying to decide that that was the right thing to say. His eyes go to the floor, then up to Cas again. "He refuses to speak with me."

"He will," Sam assures him. "He's just...you scared him, was all.

"Seems more like I pissed him off."

"Yeah, well, Dean's like that. Turns most of his fear into anger," Sam shrugs. Gaze dropping back to googling in what Cas assumes is the latest lore on his laptop. He stops momentarily subsequent, looking thoughtful.

"Has he prayed to you?"

Cas stares at him, gaze searching, and finding nothing. "I think that is a question for Dean."

 

* * *

 

If he can, usually, Cas will watch over Dean in his sleep. Sometimes, Dean will call for him, unknowingly, unconsciously, and other times, Cas will happen to come there on his own accord. Even now, with the rising tension between them. If there's one thing he can do for the hunter, it's providing a nightmare-less sleep.

Though, and this time, Dean still wakes up with an unsettling gasp. He pants, once, sucking in air at an alarming rate and sputtering. Cas can't help but put a hand on his shoulder to settle him.

Dean's eyes snap up.

"Dammit—Cas," Dean says, and he's sitting up now, scrubbing at his face. unintentionally pushing Cas off him. "Why are you in here?"

"You were praying to me," Cas explains, cautiously. "In your sleep."

Dean sighs, dejectedly, slumping back into his pillow. "Well, I'm awake now, so."

"Oh," Cas says, despite himself. He's not too certain on what this means. Should he leave? Should he disappear to somewhere else again, or just to another room? He stands, pushing off the end of Dean's bed. A hand grabs at his wrist, and he stops. Frozen.

The hand vanishes.

"Look," Dean's staring at him in the dark. "Um. You don't have to... _go._ "

Cas stares back at him.

"I mean, I did call you here, whether it was intentional or not. And I don't exactly think I'm sleeping again any time soon, so."

Cas smiles.

"This doesn't mean you're forgiven," Dean explains.

"No," Cas's presses his lips into a fine line, but the smile fights back. "Of course not."

 

* * *

 

They settle in the tv room, sitting close on the couch, but far enough apart for Dean's personal space to remain unharmed. He flicks on the television, flips it over to the first station with a solid program on.

Cas watches it for a while. The plot is...odd. Two identical, red headed twins—whom Dean later explains are actually just one person playing two people—try to split up their father and his soon to be wife. Except, this wife is not the mother of his children. Rather, the mother of his children is still present, and still in love with the father of her children, despite the separation.

Cas doesn't understand. He tells Dean this.

"How can you love a person and not like them all the time?" Cas asks, and for a minute, it appears as though Dean can't believe he's serious. He furrows his eyebrows, staring at Cas in a way that makes the angel want to retract everything he just said.

"It's complicated, Cas," Dean explains.

"How so?"

Dean stares at him incredulously. Background sounds from the film continue on in the silence, and Cas matches Dean's gaze with the same passion. Dean frowns, then, clearing his throat. "Well, um—I love Sam and all, but that doesn't mean he's not a royal pain in the ass."

"Do you ever hate him?"

"Jesus, Cas. What's with the 21 questions?"

"I do not understand this dynamic, Dean," he confesses. Dean frowns at him.

"This like that time you watched that porno with the pizza man?"

"No," Cas scowls, huffing. He leans back into the couch. "I do not understand how they could separate for so long if they truly loved each other and their children."

"You're getting awful analytical about The Parent Trap, dude. I'd hate to see how you'd be with Nicholas Sparks's shit."

"With who's shit?"

"No—he's a—" Dean frowns, again. He sighs.   
"Never mind."

For a second, only, there is silence.

"You speak Latin, now," Cas interrupts, jumping topics. Head tilting. "Why?"

The answer comes hesitantly. "Like I said in the car. It helps with the job."

Dean's intent on ignoring him, head facing forward and eyes on the screen where the credits are rolling. Cas squints.

"Exorcisms, spells. You said," he waits. "Protection spells, maybe?"

Dean says nothing. Cas smiles, nearly. "How am I alive, Dean?"

"Like I said," Dean says, turning to meet Cas's gaze. Something strange glistens in his eyes. "Latin helps with the job."

Cas leaves it be, then. Content.

Dean exhales deeply. "I think maybe we should call it a night."

Cas blinks at him, taken aback. Contentness fading. "Oh."

Dean stands, but he freezes once he's on his feet, expression tired. "Alright. Okay, _one_  more. And that’s it, capiche?"

Cas nods. "Capiche."

 

* * *

 

"Dean?" Sam calls, and upon not receiving an answer: "Cas?"

He enters the room from the back, and for a moment, Cas tries to lean back far enough to see him. He stops halfway, deciding that if Sam was going to go as far as entering the room, he'd come around to be part of Cas's line of vision. 

"Good morning," Cas greets.

"What are you—where's Dean?"

"Here," Cas hums, not moving, glancing down at where Dean's head is resting in his lap. (He'd fallen asleep sometime near four, Cas thinks, and Cas just didn't have the heart to move him. Especially not when the hunter collapsed into him.) He glances back up after a moment, eyes returning to focusing on the soap opera on TV.  Sam's footsteps sound behind him, getting progressively closer.

"Oh," Sam says, the shock wearing through in his tone. There's a hint of amusement there. "He, uh—Cas, you know you don't have to stay here with him. You could've just shoved him off."

"I do not mind," Cas informs him, hand still gently carding through Dean's hair. "There is much on TV."

"Alright, then," Sam slides his palms against the thighs of his pants. He walks around the couch, stopping in front of the empty seat beside him. "Dr. sexy, huh? You mind if I join you?"

Cas shakes his head. Sam sits. Dean remains asleep. And this, Cas decides, is exactly where he likes to be.

There is silence, comfortable. There is Sam. There is Dr. Sexy.

And then there is Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for Dean’s perspective! 
> 
> —> can be read as the prequel to Trade All My Tomorrows (part one of: Cas, you got your ears on?)


End file.
